Authors: Lane Diamond
I paused behind an ancient oak a few yards from the shed. A faint but foul odor, reminiscent of a sewer or septic tank, assaulted me.
Holy crap!
A voice invaded the darkness, but too far away for me to understand. I risked creeping right to the rear wall of the shed, and listened.
I recognized Norton's voice. "Looks like you pissed all over the place. Poor thing, you
have
been alone for the past thirty-six hours. I'll bet you're thirsty and hungry too. Tough shit! That's what you get for being a bitch."
Bitch? He has a woman in there! God, please let it be Diana.
"I'm surprised you didn't shit yourself while you were at it." He laughed. "Whatever. The Reaper has returned and he's told me what to do."
He paused, and the sound of a bag crinkling sent lightning bolts up my spine.
"The police are onto me. Do you believe that? Your fucking boyfriend somehow figured things out. That's right, your little boy Tony knows about me, though I don't know how the fuck he managed it."
It's Diana! Thank God!
"Who gives a fuck? I had big plans for us, you know. We were gonna be royalty, the king and queen of pain and misery, but you fucked it up. You had to be a prissy little baby. You had to call me vile names and attack me. You stupid bitch, you have no idea what you've given up, but I think you have a good idea of what will happen
now
."
It's show time.
I needed to get his attention somehow, and isolate him from Diana to minimize the risk to her. A bull-rush might get her killed.
I felt along the ground for a rock and found two suitable to my purpose.
He continued his rant. "Do you think it's better to die? Don't you know that I would have taken care of you? You were gonna be my queen. I would never have hurt you, but no, no, no. You ruined it! I'll tell you one thing though—I
will
have my way with you this time, and I'll keep you gagged so you can't fuck with my head. What do you think of that? Awe, that's right, go ahead and cry, you little fuckin' baby."
You sonuvabitch! I'll kill you!
I crept to the edge of the shed, and positioned myself where I had an easy aim at his truck.
"You stupid bitch, your tears don't mean a fuckin' thing. And you know what? You smell like shit, but I don't care. I'm gonna fuck your brains out. What do you think of that? Ooh, more tears. You're breaking my heart, stupid bitch! Boo hoo!"
I threw the smallest pebble at Norton's truck and it made a definite sound, but he apparently didn't hear it over the sound of his own voice.
Shit! What kind of weapons do you have in there, asshole?
"You know, after I have my way with you, then I'm
really
gonna have fun. That's right, I'm gonna work on you like I did on Danny-Boy and Jacque-Baby. Remember that, you stupid bitch? You remember the things I do with these tools? How do you think that will feel? The first thing I'll do is cut those rock-hard nipples right off your tits."
I threw the second stone much harder, and it crashed against the truck.
"What the hell was that?"
Shades of 1978, the police are all over me and I gotta assume they're watching me again, though I ain't seen no sign of them. Maybe they've learned some things since then. Has the Algonquin Police Department learned how to conduct surveillance in anonymity?
Shit!
Anything is possible.
Besides, the FBI might be doing all the legwork. They may be better at it, and of course, lovely Linda is on the case. What's going on between her and Tony Hooper? I'd swear they have a relationship in the works. I'd love to get my hands on her; she's smokin' hot, but she'd also be the second of that fuckin' Hooper's women that I destroyed.
Wouldn't that be precious?
It's so easy to hate my old nemesis again. He appears over and over, like the proverbial bad penny. If that ain't a good reason to hate him, then no good reason exists. The real question is what I'll do about it. There
have
been three new murders in Algonquin. The thought of him as victim number four is positively exquisite, but the authorities are ever watchful. I don't wanna give them a reason to watch me more closely.
There's nothing to tie me to those three victims, the authorities' assumptions be damned, but Hooper is another story. He's the Elliott Ness to my Al Capone, the Batman to my Riddler, the Roadrunner to my Wile E. Coyote. There's too much history between us.
I can't escape the fuckwad.
Starbucks is crowded today. I came to finish the last forty pages of Stephen King's book,
The Dark Half
. Maybe
I
should write a book, since finding a decent job will to be next to impossible. It could be an autobiography:
My Life and Times (and Wicked Ways)
, or maybe
I'm a New Man
, or
A Year in the Life – 1978 (The Voice of the Reaper)
. I should have thought of it sooner. I mean, shit, any knucklehead can be a writer, right?
I get a large cup—excuse me, 'venti'—of their Sumatra Extra Bold coffee, and grab a seat at a small table. Unfortunately, two irritating kids occupy the armchairs. I'll keep an eye on them and make a dash for it if one becomes available.
An hour later, two things have happened: I've finished the book, and my ass and legs have gone to sleep on this miserable wooden chair. I squirm around for a minute to get the blood circulating again, but I gotta stand to accomplish that, which proves tricky with dead legs.
I consider buying a second cup of coffee, and glance at the armchairs. I'd forgotten about them while finishing the book, but my numbed legs have brought them back into focus.
Excellent, one is empty. Occupying the other one is—
Are you fuckin' kidding me! You couldn't stay away, could you?
This may be one of Hooper's regular hangouts—perfectly innocent—yet given our history, my instincts say otherwise. Although I haven't spotted anyone, I've battled this suspicion that someone's been watching me the past couple days—like invisible mosquitoes gnawing on the back of my head.
What the hell, I may as well have a little fun with it.
I snag another cup of coffee and stroll over to sit in the available armchair. I avoid eye contact with Hooper, as though unaware of his presence, and pretend to read the book. I wanna let him have the first word or make the first move. Afterwards, depending on how crazy he gets, a call to my lawyer may be in order. I seriously want to nail this fucker.
It's been several minutes and still he hasn't uttered a single sound. If I keep grinding my teeth like this, one monster of a headache is gonna knock my dick in the dirt. It's difficult to resist the temptation, but I still ain't looked at him. Maybe he won't notice a quick glance.
I peek over the top of the book and....
The son of a whore stares right at me with a damned smile on his face! "You already finished the book,
Norton
. Give up the charade."
He must'a been watching me closely. Smart boy. We'll see about that, and I don't much care for the way he said
Norton
, like he was spitting out poison.
Gotta put on my smart cap.
"It's not too bright to follow me,
Hooper
. I happen to know Chief Radlon warned you against it, and I have an attorney on call to follow up on this kind of harassment."
"Follow you? Harassment? Don't be paranoid.
You
sat next to
me
, remember? I stopped in for a cup of coffee, as I often do, though you being here is a definite bonus."
"Is that right?"
"Why not?" He raises his voice. "If you're here drinking coffee, then you're not out murdering people and chopping up their bodies."
He ensured that everyone in the store heard, and many of them look at me with that obvious question in their eyes. They wonder if I'm a killer.
The
killer. After all, everyone around here knows about my release.
The situation irritates the hell outta me, but I keep my cool and laugh lightly in response. "I guess that's supposed to get me riled up, isn't it, Hooper?"
"Whatever do you mean?"
I laugh again. Time to strike back. "How is lovely Linda, by the way? You know, I can't seem to get her off my mind recently."
"She's fantastic, as always."
"And pretty tasty, I'll bet."
He speaks softly, determined to ignore the bait. "You got that right. Positively yummy." He smiles as though we're good friends catching up on gossip.
"Yes, I can imagine that quite easily."
"Sure, you must
imagine
it, since you haven't
had
a woman in... what's it been, seventeen years? You remember," he yells again, "when you raped, murdered and butchered a woman."
I don't bother to look around. I can imagine the looks on everyone's faces, their thoughts.
My, he does seem to be getting better at this game. Maybe I underestimated him. "You know, Hooper, my lawyer can't wait to take a shot at you. He says I needn't settle for any of your bullshit."
"Why, Mr. Norton, you offend me. Can we not engage in a little friendly conversation here?"
"Oh? Right. Then let me ask you a question. Are you and Linda involved? I thought I'd ask her out."
He laughs. "Come on, Norton, you can do better than that."
"But I'm dead serious. I'd love to spend some quality time with her. I haven't been this attracted to a woman since... well, since Diana Gregario. Talk about yummy!"
He smiles, but his eyes are red-hot flames.
"What's the matter," he says. "Aren't you satisfied screwing Scooby?"
Scooby? Our dog? What the fuck does he know about Scooby?
"How amusing, Hooper, if just a little fourth grade."
He shrugs and sips his coffee.
I gotta give him some credit for playing it cool, but no way am I gonna lose my temper in this child's game. I can be cool too.
"Perhaps you don't need Scooby," he says, still plenty loud enough for everyone in this little place to hear. "Perhaps you get all the thrills you need when you murder and dismember someone. That's what gets your rocks off, right?"
That's real funny, asshole!
"Is this your idea of non-harassment, Hooper? A judge might disagree."
He smiles and sips his coffee.
I've had enough of this bullshit. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I do believe I have an appointment with my attorney. I bet he'd love to talk with you."
"Sure, that'll be fine. Have a nice day,
Norton
."
You lousy, miserable fucker, we'll see who has a nice day!
"If I die tomorrow, it will have been useless to have been afraid today." – Mark Helprin,
A Soldier of the Great War
~~~~~
It's fortunate that I'm a natural-born creature of the night. As a boy, I often stayed up late on weekends to read with a flashlight, while the rest of the family slept. I would then sleep until after noon, causing Dad to wonder how I could sleep for fourteen hours or more. Mom knew better, as she'd caught me at my clandestine reading, even encouraged it.
I didn't have the heart to perpetuate our secret after she died. Sacrilege. Thereafter, I remained in the living room with a proper light on. Dad didn’t really care.
I've always had difficulty falling asleep at a
reasonable hour
, no matter how tired, and I've always had difficulty waking at a
reasonable hour
, no matter how rested. That made school, and any other event for which I had to get up early, a challenge.
Left to my own devices, I return to the night. It's strictly physiological—I'm a night owl by genetic design.
This comes in handy while seated in the trees at one o'clock in the morning, this not-so-fine Monday night—err, Tuesday morning—while most of Algonquin is fast asleep. I watch and wait.
The devil
may go out in the wee hours.
I have my coffee with me, as always, though I wonder what Master Komura would say about that. If I were up against a skilled or experienced opponent, coffee would be out of the question, as he could follow his nose right to me.
No problem; Norton possesses no such skill.
This is my second time out here in four nights.
I let the cops take the weekend shift, and refreshed myself in preparation for what may be a long week. I was here Friday night too, but too late, as I discovered Saturday.
Algonquin suffered a third murder victim, butchered inside a little work shed located in the cemetery. The groundskeeper couldn't understand all the flies, according to the reports, until he opened the shed and found poor Lindsey Merkham in too many pieces. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to eat again after his vomiting fit. Sleep might not be much of a bargain for him either, at least for a while.
I'm sorry, Lindsey, I was too late. I didn't know you but I won't forget you. I promise; your killer's days are numbered.
The police questioned Norton again. His mother swore he was home the whole time, reading in her living room while she knitted a new sweater. Linda, who accompanied Chief Radlon for the questioning, told me Mrs. Norton was adamant and more than a little upset that her boy suffered such harassment. Much to my chagrin, Linda said she believed Mrs. Norton had told the truth.
Perhaps, but something is amiss. The timelines are out of whack or something. I don't know. I know only that Algonquin is once again prey to a killer, all within days of a known serial killer's release. I'm no fan of coincidence.
I trust Linda's instincts, but she can't know everything. She's no mind reader, and I couldn't tell her that I spotted Norton coming home quietly in the dark the night of Lindsey's death. She wouldn't approve, and I'd prefer to avoid that argument.
It's a strange dynamic that we have, Linda and me. She knows exactly what I do, yet somehow she avoids it. Why? Because it would change our relationship? I think she enjoys our relationship quite a lot, as do I. The sex is... well... yowza! But there's so much more than that.
Yet our earlier conversation created a whole new bag of worms for me.
We were at Frank's place—I should get used to calling it my place—for dinner, tea and conversation. Linda and I went inside to wash the dishes afterwards, leaving Frank to enjoy his tea on the patio.
***
"So what are you going to do?"
I turned to Linda, and threw up my best Mr. Spock eyebrow. "Do? About what?"
"Are we going to dance around this thing again?"
Uh-oh!
She meant Norton. She meant my... avocation. "I'm not much of a dancer. Perhaps if your question were more specific."
"You forget that I was there three years ago, when you saved my ass from Ronald Allen Stegman."
"And what a gorgeous ass it is, if I—"
"Don’t do that! Don't deflect. I'm serious here."
Indeed, she was. Her eyes cast a mixture of fear and doubt and anxiety and—mostly fear. Her chest heaved with nervous, rapid breathing. She licked her lips and swallowed repeatedly. Classic signs of distress.
My head spun with possibilities—and damn few of them good. She was an FBI Special Agent, for God's sake. Whatever she might feel for me, how could I possibly...?
"Look," I said, "you never pushed me on Stegman, on what I was doing there, and I appreciated that. Then and now." I paused, damn near helpless before her. "But you have to know that I never intended to hold that over your head. Then or now."
She sighed and offered a sad smile. "I know. You saved me from...." Her upper body did that quick shiver that happens when one is spooked. "I can only imagine what he would have done to me."
My turn to smile. I needed to let her drive this conversation.
"And for that reason," she said, "I ignored who I was—what I did."
I nodded.
"But I'm a law enforcement officer for the FBI, a sworn officer of the court, and you're... you're...." She snorted and threw up her hands. "Am I supposed to believe that Stegman was the first time? The last time? What am I supposed to do here?"
I smiled again. "Your job. How could you do anything else?"
"But... how can I... what would...?"
I put a finger to her lips. "It's okay."
She looked utterly helpless as she closed her eyes and kissed my finger.
"You must do," I said, "whatever is required of you. Let me worry about me."
She laid her head on my shoulder and wrapped her arms around me. "You make it sound so simple."
***
I scan the area around Norton's house again—still no movement—and try to shake off the conversation with Linda.
We drifted into silence after that, holding each other and kissing, and tried to imagine better possibilities. I'd expected us to spend the night together, but somehow that too drifted away.
The truth is I think I'm falling in love with her.
I've made it a point during the past seventeen years
not
to fall in love, and I'm afraid I may have forgotten how. The pain I endured seventeen years ago, the only time I've ever loved, is something I vowed never to experience again. Since there are no guarantees in any relationship, I avoided the situation altogether.
Nice and safe.
Loneliness, however, remains a persistent foe, never surrendering the struggle. It wears me down like waves crashing on the beach, until I must either surrender or swim. After many long years of meaningless and unfulfilling encounters, I'm ready to fight back, ready for the real thing. It's happened quickly, but it feels as if I've been with Linda much longer.
I clearly have some important decisions to make, but first, time to close this chapter of my life. Seventeen years after the fact, the re-emergence of Norton has brought all my pain into sharp focus. I lost far too much, and while killing him won't bring any of it back, it's about more than that. It's about stopping the pain, the death; about defeating a butcher before he kills again.
I should have done it then, because now... three more people have died terribly.
I
will
do it this time. No choice. How else can I move on? It gnaws at me like a rat on old bones. Time to destroy the rat.
I shuffle through the trees to stretch my legs, toward Mohawk, to get a look south on the street to see if the police have set up surveillance. I may be only one of several keeping watch, and might have to work around them. I've done it for a long time, but it's often a difficult thing, something that requires constant vigilance and planning and the sort of improvisation that, fortunately for me, both Frank and Master Komura have helped me perfect over the years.
I'm nothing if not well trained.
I stop behind a tree near the corner where Mohawk and Pioneer intersect. There are only two cars parked on the street, both of which appear empty. The other parked cars are in driveways, of no concern as they belong to the residents of the neighborhood.
"Wait, what's that?"
What would the resident of that house say if he knew the police used his driveway for surveillance? Then again, maybe they got permission. Sneaky.
It's impossible to make out the color of the dark car in the black of night. No car expert, I'm uncertain of the make—domestic, definitely a four-door. Looks official.
Norton probably won't spot it. Hell,
I
spotted it only because of the movement in the back seat.
I reach into the pack at my hip, and pull out a small but powerful pair of binoculars. I'd hoped the moonlight would be enough to make out who it is, but it's difficult to focus without a streetlight nearby. I lower the binoculars and close my eyes tightly for two full minutes, and upon opening them, the night appears brighter—a simple old army trick to improve night vision.
I try the binoculars again.
There's definitely a man in the back seat, against the passenger-side door. He has a clear and constant view of the Norton house. I would never have spotted him if he hadn't moved, but Master trained me to spot movement. As he likes to say, "The samurai must see even the invisible."
I shift the binoculars toward the front seat, where an odd shape appears that's difficult to make out. It might be someone seated in the front but, if so, he leans back and keeps still. It takes a minute or two, but he leans forward and stretches, and long hair..... Perhaps it's not a
he
.
When Linda's face turns toward me, I say, "That's why you didn't press me to spend the night with you."
Her presence complicates things. The person in the backseat must be an FBI associate, or a local cop.
"No more vacation for you, my dear. I'm not the only one with secrets."
It's a funny thing about stakeouts, something I discovered long ago. I do tend to talk to myself, aloud, as if talking to someone else. It feels perfectly normal.
If Norton moves, I may have to cede the pursuit to Linda and her partner. It will depend on where he goes and by what means. He no longer uses a precious "shop," as he called it in 1978, though Friday night's effort at the cemetery was pretty close to his old
modus operandi
.
He killed the two previous victims in their own homes. Lindsey Merkham may have been a crime of opportunity, another thing he knows about.
It harkens memories of the Hoopster.
I try to put Alex out of my mind—not a good time—and focus again on Diana. She's—
Damn it, I almost missed it!
Movement flashed in my peripheral vision, off to the right. He's on the move, dressed in black and wearing a ski mask. It's déjà-vu all over again. That mask must be hotter than hell. He moves up out of the grass along the back property line, headed west toward Pioneer—precisely what he did in 1978.
I pull up the binoculars and take a quick look at Linda's surveillance car. Neither she nor her partner gives any indication that they've seen Norton. His house probably interferes with their line of sight.
Did they forget what he did seventeen years ago, how he eluded surveillance then? There must be another vehicle keeping watch in the area. I'll have to be careful.
I zip through the trees—reminiscent of '78—with the greatest caution. Norton may remember that little tidbit from the court testimony, and be watching for it. I must "walk on air," as Master Komura puts it.
Damn, Linda is going to be pissed!
Norton passes Getzelman Terrace and approaches Suicide Trail, keeping to routine. He stops and looks around. Though he wears the nearly invisible black clothes, he makes no additional effort to remain hidden.
That's dumb, Norton.
He heads up Suicide Trail, and I jog to catch up with him, repeatedly glancing around to ensure that no other surveillance vehicles are watching.
I parked my van above the ridge on Geringer Road in case I'd need it, as I did with Frank's Cadillac in '78.
It's like watching a rerun, but Linda's decision not to stake out this area, given what happened seventeen years ago, stumps me. She should know better. It's almost as if she—
Shit! Is this for
my
benefit?
I refocus on Norton. If he has access to a vehicle again, I should be all set. If not, he'll be walking to another house to do his business.
I come to the edge of the trees alongside the trail, and he clears the top and disappears left on Geringer.
Keeping to the old routine? Geez, Norton, I thought you were smarter than this.
I fly up the left edge of the trail and peer around the last tree at the top. He's walking along the left edge of the road. Two houses down, he stops and looks around again, waits a few seconds, then turns into the driveway on his left.